weary, remorseful, he
drags himself home. He has lessened his virility and it worries him.
There is a plot in this. Some day I will write it out--a love story of
the sexes. Poor, weary one, he has enriched Delilah.

"Ah, I am amused. It will be pleasant to observe people once more.
Sanity has its rewards. Its laughter is a charming hint of madness that
one may enjoy harmlessly.

"What a lecherous spectacle a row of dark houses is! Bedrooms filled
with bodies--incredible nudities. Bed springs creaking. The hour of
asterisks. Window blinds down. Doors locked. Lights out. The city
lingers in the snow like a feeble burlesque. Houses and shops and street
car tracks gesture reprovingly. Civilization bows its head in the night
like an abandoned bride. Man, like an ape hunting fleas, preoccupies
himself again with his nerve centers.

"Darkened houses, silence--Rabelais and Boccaccio debate the immaculate
conception. Eros, patron saint of the laundryman, conducts ancient
rituals.

"Ah, these indefatigable and unctuous fornicators, rolling their eyes
piously between orgasms; embroidering noble mottoes on their pleasure
towels! [These prim exquisites, carefully and with raised eyebrows,
folding their toilet paper into proper squares!] Who can be angry with
them? God drove them out of Paradise--punishment enough. They revenge
themselves with a monotonous enthusiasm. Ah, these fellatian moralists!
It is folly to take their hypocrisies to heart. The plot is too
delicious for tears. These two-fisted citizens, these purity braggarts
masturbating with one finger unemployed and pointing scornfully at their
neighbors!

"Charming street. It offers consolations, simple ones, to be sure. But
nevertheless, consolations. My madness was not as mad as this dark
street. This is a prettier witches' night than the one I aspired to. I
am amused and my amusement is an insult that inspires me. If one cannot
become God, one can at least sit and sneer happily at the handiwork of
his rival.

"The dawn comes into my head. Poor Mallare, who must readjust his
vocabulary to coherences. The night flies away. How simple this little
scene becomes. Mysteries vanish. Doors open. Window blinds raise
themselves. And now people stick their heads out into the cold. Wagons,
trucks, crowds begin. They hurry to work, older by a night.

"My sanity laughs at them, but sadly. I detect an obligato to my mirth.
The comedy is poignant only because I am a part of it.